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In the 12th century, 100 Cathar prisoners had their noses cropped, their lips cut off, their eyes gauged out—then to be led by the one man left with one eye, home to Lastours, a file of the blind, “a visible demonstration of the ineffable mercy of God’s Christian Army.”

—quotation from Cathar Castles of the Languedoc

The redoubts the Cathars built issued from rock

as if they were offspring of rock, or an idea

rock had, and built.

They dragged everything they needed

up that rock including the rock

to build with; everything had to

be hauled up.

If an enemy came close

they poured hot oil down.

Oil they had hauled up.

Wood they had hauled up to heat the oil.

It worked, awhile. I would like to mention how

I hear my mother’s voice rise up when she is not here.

I would like to know how

it is I hear it

but from the next room.

The real next room.

Off to one side lies my mother’s death

but it is not far off,

over my shoulder, casting

a beady eye on my business. You are losing

your mind I think, leaving unhappily.

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We have arrived at what we dread: the

diminution of loved ones, livid

and unmistakable lapses, quick

angers that lap at, lick at

dread: dread

that is the one certain shore.

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I didn’t share my margins with her so she died. I didn’t share my mangoes with her.